A Farewell To Arms
by hiddenhibernian
Summary: The war never stopped; it merely paused for breath when Voldemort died. Draco never thought he would live to see thirty, never mind survive the war. Most of the time, he wonders why he even bothered. Then he remembers Hermione soaring in the air on a broom, racing against her own shadow in the moonlight. There are some things even Death cannot touch.
1. Swept Clean

**This fic was originally written for Potterstock on Livejournal, and is loosely based on 'Viva la Vida' by Coldplay. I've had it in my head for years, but it wasn't until now I finally got around to writing it down. As always, thanks to my wonderful beta Híril.**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Swept Clean**

 **-oOo-**

Draco woke up suddenly, his heart hammering like it was trying to break out of his chest.

He had been dreaming about Hermione again. His dreams were always set in the past, as if he remembered even in his dreams he had no future.

Fragments of the dream still clung to him like wet robes in the rain, and he sat up to clear his head, throwing his threadbare blanket aside. The sun was shining in through the gaps in the wall, even though it couldn't be later than six o'clock. Draco didn't own a clock anymore, or much else for that matter.

He didn't need belongings to remember. Sometimes, the past seemed more real than the present.

The springs on the ancient mattress creaked as he rose, barely stopping to grab his broom on the way out. Niceties like changing out of the clothes he had slept in belonged in the past. Letting the door slam shut behind him, he stepped out into the alley winding its way to Knockturn Alley with his broom hoisted over his shoulder.

They must have thought his sentence was the perfect punishment – the whole Wizarding world would watch Draco sweep the streets, stripped of his wand.

After the initial pointing and laughing had abated, he didn't mind it much. His hands were busy and his head empty. There wasn't time to remember as he counted every flagstone in Knockturn Alley, sweeping them clean of dust and grime. He couldn't care less about the whispers in his wake ("Did you _see_?" "Not so high and mighty now, eh?").

Today, Draco was sweeping Diagon Alley. After a good night, he might count the shops he recognised from when he had been a boy, before his Hogwarts letter had arrived. Slugg & Jiggers, Ollivander's (best not think about the electrifying feeling of holding his wand for the first time), the Magical Menagerie, Eeylops Owl Emporium, Quality Quidditch Supplies...

He would never again feel the wind in his hair, riding an enchanted broom searing into the air. The only brooms he would ever hold would be like this one, entirely bereft of magic, only possessing the ability to leave his once soft hands calloused.

Draco counted the cobbles under his breath, not losing the count until he had swept all the way down to Gringotts. The streets were still empty, awaiting the morning rush. He sat down on the front steps, digging around his pockets until he found a few pieces of dried-up bread. He chewed and chewed on his breakfast as the world passed him by, occasionally sparing a glance at the man they had feared not so long ago.

Draco wasn't even thirty-five, but he felt like he had lived for centuries. Most of the people he had known were already dead. If he hadn't been too ashamed to face them again, he would have joined them long ago.

* * *

It had seemed such a perfect ending at the time – the Elder Wand spinning into Potter's hand as dawn broke over Hogwarts, defeating the Dark Lord like he had been born to conquer.

Unfortunately, life does not end in a perfect moment, and in victory Potter sowed the seeds to his premature end. Announcing to a hall full of his enemies that he was the Master of the Unbeatable Wand was perhaps, in retrospect, not the wisest move he could have made. Potter's amazing run of luck had kept him safe since he had emerged from the ruins of his home at the age of one, but it didn't last more than a month after the Battle of Hogwarts.

The Boy-Who-Lived had been killed by Trevor Yaxley in an ambush outside Hogsmeade, walking back to Hogwarts. They said Potter had his wand arm slung around the waist of Ginevra Weasley, and was hit in the back as he was stealing a kiss. The hex got the Weasley girl, too – collateral damage had never worried Yaxley unduly.

The survivors of the defeated side had to choose whether to meekly await their punishment, or throw in their lot with one of the Dark Lord's more dim-witted lieutenants.

For the Malfoys, it wasn't much of a choice. Draco and his father were awaiting their trials in Azkaban when Yaxley's forces broke them out, along with most of the other prisoners. The all-too-familiar bone-deep chill of the Dementors Yaxley had used to overcome the prison guards had barely dissipated when the two Malfoys joined a meeting of his forces.

As far as Draco could tell, they were somewhere on the Somerset countryside. Outside, bales of hay told him it was already summer – time had passed in skips and hops since May, and he had long since lost count of the days. The barn they were congregated in was full to bursting point. Draco recognised many of the faces – Travers, Rowle, Pansy Parkinson's parents, Avery – but many others were new to him.

He spotted Theo Nott in the crowd and would have shouted out to him, if the noise hadn't already been deafening.

Father steadily pushed to the front, despite the wall of warm bodies blocking their way ("Malfoys belong at the fore"), and Draco followed him as best as he was able. He heard snippets of conversations as he passed through the crowd:

"They say I 'aided and abetted' the regime – I just moved my shop to Diagon Alley to keep my customers. What was I supposed to do? I have to earn a living!"

"I heard I was next up for trial – they reckon I passed on information to You-Know-Who!"

"They won't catch me alive – I'm not going back to Azkaban!"

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling howl shocked everyone into silence.

They were almost at the old lorry that seemed to be intended as a stage, and Draco looked up. Fenrir Greyback stared right back at him, blood dripping from his mouth and hands. His hands – Draco couldn't be sure, but he feared the ugly, misshapen blob dripping of blood in Greyback's hands was a heart. A human heart, of course – Greyback wouldn't have bothered otherwise.

"Voldemort is dead!" he roared. "Yaxley –" he held up the heart and Draco felt bile rising in his throat – "is dead!"

There was a clamour from the crowd, most of who hadn't been able to see Greyback's trophy before. Greyback ignored the agitated voices and continued his call to arms.

"I'm alive, and I'm going to stay alive! I'm not waiting for the Ministry to hunt me down – I'm standing up to them!"

The ragged-looking wizard next to Draco cheered.

"They're coming for the rest of you, too – if they haven't already. How many of you are fresh out of Azkaban?" There was a bigger cheer this time. "They can pick us off one by one, or we can fight together. I say we fight! Who's with me?"

The room erupted in cheers and shouts, and Draco turned to look at his father.

Lucius Malfoy looked gaunt; there was a frailty about him Draco never had noticed before the Battle of Hogwarts. He refused to engage in the chanting and hollering around them, but nodded slightly to Draco.

They were in.

Draco wasn't surprised; despite being set free from his cell, he wasn't under any illusions they were free to go. He wondered how every single decision he had made had been the wrong one, forgetting there rarely had been a choice to make once the Dark Mark took possession of his left arm.

Shacklebolt had made a few disastrous choices too, being more concerned with the forthcoming trials than the possibility of an uprising. He resigned three days after the Azkaban breakout. In a decision that would cost them dearly, the Wizengamot appointed Arthur Weasley in his place.

Weasley, unused to power and still reeling from his family's losses, listened to his advisors and took a hardline approach. All he achieved was to drive anyone who feared being marked as a supporter of Voldemort into the arms of the army gathering behind Greyback.

Just like the Malfoys, they had nothing left to lose.

During the previous war, Draco had occasionally forgotten everything was going to pieces around him. He had walked down Diagon Alley during the holidays, and apart from the unsightly beggars it had been the same. Hogwarts had been different, but it had still been a school of magic, with houses and students and professors. Even the Ministry had trundled on, attending to cauldron thickness and sending out the Pest Advisory Board to deal with Bundimun infestations amongst the efforts to get rid of anyone with Muggle blood.

This time, no saving graces survived the initial year.

Diagon Alley laid in ruins, and Hogwarts had been turned into a besieged stronghold. Malfoy Manor had been sacked several times, and Draco had dared return only briefly to get some of their hidden gold. The furniture, the paintings of his ancestors and the heirlooms adorning the many rooms were either stolen or beyond repair.

Even when the Malfoys had been in disfavour and the Dark Lord had sat at the head of their table, Draco had held on to a scrap of hope. He really had believed things would go back to normal, back to a time when Quidditch and beating Granger in the next exam had been his main concerns. As he duelled with his back to the wall in Hogsmeade after being spotted on a raid for provisions, Draco finally realised this time there was no going back.

Hitting a Weasley in the calf with a curse that made him yelp and stumble backwards, Draco spotted his chance to get out of there.

As he Apparated, he realised that he wasn't thinking 'Home', like he usually did. Home wasn't the ransacked Manor anymore, nor Hogwarts, and he would be damned if he ever referred to the hovel his family had been assigned as home by Greyback.

Draco Malfoy had no home, and it soon looked as if he didn't have a future either.

His mother didn't make it through the first winter. Draco hadn't yet learnt how Muggle elecktricity worked, and the abandoned holiday cottage they took shelter in was bitterly cold. No Healers had joined Greyback's campaign, so once Draco's healing spells had been exhausted there was nothing they could do to fight the pneumonia.

Afterwards, his father became even quieter. Whole conversations seemed to pass him by, never mind the finer details of a planned raid. Draco bartered his mother's wand to have Lucius taken off active duty. At least it kept him alive, but Draco was increasingly beginning to wonder if there was anybody in there.

Around them, everything was going to hell.

The Order was suffering heavy losses, too, but Draco didn't care about them. As the new war entered its fifth year, he had to count backwards to figure out he would be turning twenty-three that year.

Six years ago, he had celebrated his coming of age with Theo, sharing a smuggled bottle of Firewhiskey in their dormitory. They had raised their conjured glasses to the future and their place in it. It went without saying they would achieve great things; weren't they the vanguard of the Dark Lord, building a great new country?

Instead, the future mostly consisted of ducking and running, scavenging to secure enough food not to go hungry. Occasionally Draco took down an enemy, but there always seemed to be more of them.

Theo had disappeared the previous year. If he was lucky, he was already dead.

Draco couldn't picture what would happen in the next six years. He looked around the camp – his fellow fighters would have made his seventeen-year-old self cringe.

By the fire, a young witch was tearing into a skinned rabbit with bared teeth, smacking and licking like a werewolf ravaging its prey. In another life, Draco might have admired her across a ballroom, debating whether to ask her to dance. Next to her, a Centaur who had ended up on the wrong side of his herd tried to mend his knapsack. There were blood traitors here, even Muggle-borns – as long as they had a wand, no one asked any questions.

They had long since ceased pretending the war made any sense.

Fenrir Greyback clung on to power – the fate of anyone daring to oppose him put most challengers off. Draco didn't expect to survive much longer, but he wouldn't be surprised if Greyback emerged as the victor from the smoking ashes of the Wizarding world **.**

* * *

 **To be continued next week**


	2. End Game

**Chapter 2**

 **End Game**

 **-oOo-**

Draco was wrong – he did survive the next six years. His father didn't, however, making Draco the last surviving Malfoy. He decided against trying to sire an heir – why bring more souls into this rotten world? It was made slightly less rotten that year by Sturgis Podmore taking down Fenrir Greyback, but as Dolohov took over any hope of better things died quickly.

There was more of the same – more raids, more scavenging for food, more Muggles killed than Draco could keep track of.

The years started blending into each other, and he could barely remember what it had been liked to have a fixed abode, knowing what he would be doing weeks – no, months in advance. He recalled complaining to Pansy about being bored at Hogwarts in fifth year, stuck listening to teachers instead of doing something. The poetic justice of what occurred subsequently would have been more satisfying if it had happened to someone else, but Draco could appreciate it all the same. He would have been caught up in the war even if his old self hadn't been an idiot, but it might have been more bearable if he at least had been able choose which side to fight for.

The forces of the Order of the Phoenix weren't exactly irreproachable – in addition to the inevitable collateral damage they didn't even bother covering up anymore, they committed their share of massacres, and when they caught prisoners they retaliated in kind.

Greg Goyle was caught in Godric's Hollow, visiting his mother. In the beginning, when a large bribe had been sufficient to secure most assignments, Draco had managed to get him posted to camp duty. It had kept him safe for a long time. As long as Greg didn't have to think on his feet and someone explained what he was supposed to do, he wasn't as dim as people thought. His wards had protected hundreds and thousands of his fellow soldiers in their sleep over the years; not bad for someone who had got a T in his final Charms exam.

It didn't help him in the end, of course. They found his body afterwards, but not his head. Draco was probably the last living person who cared, but he knew it was useless – what was another head, in a conflict where being killed quickly in action was the best you could hope for?

The sheer pettiness of it annoyed him, though– it didn't make any difference to Greg, so why not let them bury all of him?

Admittedly, Draco had committed what prissy-faced non-combatants no doubt would call war crimes – if the Wizarding world ever returned to a state where war trials weren't just an absurd memory – but whatever he had done, he had done in the heat of the moment.

With curses rained at him from all sides, and his backup consisted of a seventeen-year-old with a borrowed wand and a recent deserter from the Order he suspected was a spy, Draco defied anyone who claimed they, too, wouldn't inflict as much damage on their enemies as they possibly could.

He was still alive, so he must be doing something right.

Draco slept (he rarely dreamed – fortunately, his brain seemed to shut down at the end of the day), consumed his meagre rations, planned missions and fought. There was no respite, only the same things over and over again. Rising through the ranks by virtue of longevity as much as skill, he managed to avoid the top tier where the biggest danger was a knife in the back rather than an Order curse.

Still, Draco wasn't surprised when he was handpicked to attend a rare meeting with the opposite side. Being a Malfoy still meant something, even though the Manor had been razed to the ground in a skirmish several years ago. Their glorious leader liked to at least pay lip service to the ideals he had signed up to so long ago.

"Malfoy." Granger's eyes were hard, and her hollowed-out cheeks made her almost unrecognisable from the girl he remembered. The hair was the same, albeit dirtier. Draco assumed the ginger next to her was a Weasley, but he couldn't tell which one. He had no difficulties identifying his old teacher – Filius Flitwick could have Apparated in from the Hogwarts of Draco's memories, fresh from making his first-years swish and flick until their wrists wore out. He even smiled at Draco, although it didn't reach his eyes.

"This is Havar Greyback," Draco nodded to the young man next to him. "I assume Mr Ollivander needs no introduction?"

The lack of response came as no surprise – securing Ollivander's allegiance last year had been a welcome boost, and the Order must be feeling the loss keenly. Draco knew only too well what it was like to be without a wand.

"Thank you for joining us," Weasley said, as if they were Subcommittee 5b meeting up to discuss new guidelines on cauldron thickness. "We also appreciate your agreement to abstaining from using magic for this meeting."

They had all sworn Unbreakable Oaths not to – Weasley wasn't quite as stupid as he sounded.

"It was our pleasure," Draco replied, dredging up the phrase from the recesses of his memory, from when it still had mattered what he said to people. Granger sniggered, and he glared at her. Cursing without asking questions was definitely easier.

"Capital." Flitwick picked up the reins to the conversation like he had been teaching yesterday, and Draco wondered what he had been doing since Hogwarts closed. "As you no doubt are aware – whether you chose to acknowledge it or not – we are perilously close to making ourselves extinct. Additionally, as the Statute of Secrecy has become a relic of a past way of life rather than an overriding concern, we face immediate attention from the Muggles."

Havar made a noise and Flitwick addressed him directly, as if he was a first-year still doubting the existence of magic. "They aren't any more stupid than we are, you know. The Ilfracombe incident turned out to be the last straw for some of their senior law enforcement officials, and they're preparing a strategy as we speak. Are you familiar with the concept of 'drones'?"

"They will find us, unless we act fast," Granger broke in, apparently deciding the level of explanation required was excessive. "There's sixty million of them and only a few thousand of us, so I don't rate our chances." She didn't say it, but Draco knew as well as she did that the overwhelming majority of Muggle-borns and half-bloods with an affinity for Muggle life were fighting on the side of the Order. Many of them had disappeared during the last decade, deciding life without magic was preferable to life being cut short.

Draco didn't agree with them, but it was obvious that he and his comrades would be much less able to hide among the Muggles to escape a latter-day witch-hunt.

"So what do you suggest?" he asked. "Should we all become one happy family in the face of an external threat?"

* * *

It turned out to be slightly more complicated than that, or at least Draco assumed it was – he wasn't acquainted with any happy families, so he was unaware of the level of effort involved.

There were more Unbreakable Oaths, more meetings, and more sniping from Granger. She was clever about it, too – whenever the discussions weren't going her way, she threw in an unassailable fact to tilt the balance in the Order's favour.

"If we remain on our chosen course, we will self-destruct within the next four years. No more magic in Britain."

"The Muggles can attack us with the force of a thousand Blasting Curses merely by pressing a button. They don't even need to be in the same county – all they need to do is figure out roughly where we are hiding."

"Following the closure of Hogwarts, the average life expectancy of a seventeen-year-old witch or wizard is eighteen months."

"The only remaining pure-blood families are Malfoy, Weasley and Longbottom. Rather ironic, when you consider the majority of them are fighting for the Order."

Draco finally snapped at the latest pronouncement. "Since when did you start chronicling the Sacred Twenty-Eight?"

She raised her eyebrows, adding superciliousness to her doubtful charms. "I merely thought it was a useful fact."

"To do what? Issue an updated edition of the _Pure-Blood Directory_?" Admittedly Draco's copy did come in handy to spot imposters, but as most of the prospective customers were dead he didn't think there was much demand.

"To highlight the fact that you have lost the war in every conceivable way." Granger sat there, dirty and scarred and battle-worn, as full of herself as she had when scoring half a point more than Draco had on their Charms homework.

"Last time I checked, these were peace negotiations, not an offer to surrender. You've barely got enough fighters to defend Hogwarts, never mind forcing us out of Diagon Alley."

"I didn't say we'd won, did I?" Granger looked as tired as Draco felt for a second. Sleep was something that happened to other people, these days. "We've lost too, Malfoy. All of us have lost – this is merely an attempt to salvage some pieces from the mess we've made. The best we can hope for is that future generations will curse our names. The worst case scenario is that there won't be any."

Draco had always taken his place in history for granted – he was a _Malfoy_. For the first time, he realised it may have been a mistake to take history for granted.

* * *

It got easier after that, because he finally understood where the Order was coming from. Harder, too, because suddenly Draco cared about something beyond his own survival. Getting Dolohov to consider compromising on anything was like pulling out teeth without magic. Flattery, skilfully adding to his paranoia, and appealing to what little common sense he still retained got Draco enough concessions to call another meeting with the Order.

This time, they would be making a deal.

All the commanders of the Order were there: Sturgis Podmore, Fleur Weasley, Lee Jordan and Augusta Longbottom. They were seated opposite their counterparts on a dais, with Draco, Granger and associated flunkies below.

Anyone inclined to snigger at the thought of a centenarian heading armed forces in combat hadn't faced the pointy end of old Madam Longbottom's wand – Draco would rather take on Jordan than her. He had always thought the problem with the old fighters were the sheer amount of time they had had to absorb spells that weren't taught at Hogwarts.

Facing them was Antonin Dolohov, flanked by Rabastan Lestrange, Poppy Parkinson and Havar Greyback. Rabastan had survived his older brother by keeping a low profile. He looked uneasy in the limelight, his sallow complexion unusually pale in the cold daylight. Pansy's mother wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something bad, and it didn't escape Draco's notice that she was sitting as far away from the werewolf as she was able, pulling up her robes tightly around her.

She had better watch out – Dolohov would punish any breeches of discipline severely, and putting a dent in the united front they were supposed to display would certainly qualify.

"We propose a cease-fire to explore the possibility of a permanent peace agreement. As of now, all hostilities will cease. Any fighters contravening the order will face immediate execution." Dolohov came to the end of his parchment with the pre-agreed text, and Draco held his breath.

It had to come from Dolohov – he would never commit the public indignity of consenting to a proposal made by the other side. One could never be certain he would stick to what Draco had spent hours upon hours hashing out with the Order negotiators, however – could Dolohov resist the temptation to swing the balance in his favour?

One look at the flat contempt on Fleur Weasley's face told Draco it would be fruitless – the only deal they would get was the one on the table. Their two sides had been trying to destroy each other for the last twelve years. Reason would suggest the situation was unlikely to have changed recently, but then Dolohov had always been incapable of understanding how anyone could act outside their narrow self-interest.

"Do you agree to these terms?" he asked, and Draco felt his shoulders sag with relief. Somehow, his gaze moored in on Granger's brown eyes, pinned to her own leaders without wavering.

"We do." Longbottom's thin, reedy voice sounded a gasp away from the grave – they must hope a show of weakness would give Dolohov false courage.

Granger looked right at Draco, then, and he almost thought he saw the ghost of a smile on her face, for the first time since he could remember.

Maybe they would have a future, after all.


	3. A New Dawn

**Chapter 3**

 **A New Dawn**

 **-oOo-**

After Finnigan's execution, resistance among the lower ranks abated. If the cease-fire truly meant there would be no more attacks from the Order, it would be foolish to get oneself killed by one's own side. The hell-or-glory brigade had been killed off years ago, so at least there was no problems keeping the fanatics in order on their side.

"Pity about Finnigan," Draco offered the next time he saw Granger. He wasn't being facetious – their year was a dying breed, and for every one of them that succumbed Draco felt his own death coming a little closer.

For a moment he thought she might burst into tears – her bottom lip wobbled a little and she breathed in deeply, but then she pulled herself together again.

"What's another one, in the big scheme of things?"

"'Any man's death diminishes me'," Draco quoted, nettled by her attitude. He was supposed to be indifferent to Finnigan's demise, not she.

"'Because I am involved in mankind'," Granger continued, her eyes cold and clear. "A bit rich coming from someone who has spent over a decade fighting for their inalienable right to kill Muggles at will."

"Well, maybe I'm beginning to realise it's not all it's cracked up to be." It slipped out of Draco before he realised he had told her the absolute truth. He really had to start watch himself, if this was what happened when he let his guard down.

Pucey arrived then, and Draco barely had time to smooth his features into the Malfoy face ('You are not worthy of my attention, but I shall condescend to listen to you anyway').

* * *

"What is it you really want?" Draco asked Granger, while Flitwick and Poppy Parkinson were having an animated discussion about the inner mechanics of Unbreakable Oaths.

"What do you mean?"

He didn't blame her for sounding suspicious; as usual, his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own when Granger was around. "In general, I mean. I tried to imagine what I would do if we ever get this peace agreement over the line –" They both turned to look at Flitwick, who was prodding Poppy with his wand to underline his doubts that Unbreakable Vows could be linked to objects, like Portkeys.

"I don't think there's any rush." Granger smiled, and Draco discovered she had lots of little creases around her eyes.

"Yeah, well..."

Poppy pushed Flitwick so hard he almost toppled backwards. She rose, towering several feet above him, looking every inch the goddess of retribution. "Kindly don't manhandle me, if you wish to retain the function of all your limbs."

Draco remembered Flitwick had been a Duelling Champion, despite his usual geniality – it wouldn't be surprising if the war had shortened his fuse significantly.

Granger must have done the same calculations. "I think we had better keep the peace here and now." She put her arm on Flitwick's, but he shook it off. Draco didn't have time to see what she did next; soothing Poppy Parkinson's ruffled sensibilities required all his attention for several minutes.

There was no opportunity for private talk with Granger afterwards. Finding a way to extend Unbreakable Vows to a large number of people was difficult enough, without keeping Flitwick and Poppy from coming to blows.

The next time they met, Draco didn't realise Granger was gravitating towards him until he noticed they formed a separate little island of two, quite apart from the two main opposing groups of wizards in the joint Boundary Commission.

"I thought about what you asked," she said, and it took him a moment to remember where they had left off.

"And?"

"The cinema. I'd like to go to the cinema and just turn my brain off for a while. The more stupid the film, the better, and absolutely no violence. Cartoons would do nicely." Even talking about it made her sound more relaxed than he had ever imagined her. This 'cinema' thing might be worth looking into.

When it became obvious Draco had no idea what she was talking about, Granger took pity on him. "It's a Muggle thing. Obviously. It's like the Wizarding Wireless Network, but with moving pictures, too."

"I see."

"No, you don't, but never mind. What about you?"

Draco shouldn't have been so surprised she would ask, but for some reason he had never turned it around on himself. "I would –" He drew a blank at first. "I would go to a library – the one at Hogwarts, if it's still there – and get a pile of books, and then I would just sit there. With my back to the room, not to the wall." Just imagining it made his back prickle – maybe he would leave out the last part.

"It's gone, I'm afraid." Granger looked truly sympathetic – if there was anything they could commiserate about, it would be the loss of libraries. "There's lots of Muggle libraries, if that's any good to you?"

"Probably not. I might go to Durmstrang then, seeing as everything will be possible, even international travel."

For the first time in his memory, Granger's mouth fell open slightly, eerily reminiscent of Ronald Weasley in his less stellar moments. She stared fixedly at the thoroughly unremarkable wood panelling adorning the run-down Muggle mansion they were meeting in for several minutes, before she gave herself a visible shake.

"Excuse me." She seemed to have aged several years before him, and the expression in her eyes was as close to despair as made no difference.

"What the hell happened there, Granger?" Draco reckoned he was owed an explanation.

Surprisingly, she agreed. "I may as well tell you, I suppose. As I'm sure you're aware," she made a wry smile with absolutely no humour in it, "I sent my parents out of harm's way before we started looking for Horcruxes. I just realised that even if I were able to leave the country, I couldn't bring them back now. It's been too long, and I've changed too much. This country has changed too much. They're better off as they are. Or so I hope?"

"I haven't done anything to them, if that's what you're asking," Draco said gruffly. He couldn't bear the pleading look in her eyes, as if he would have the power to ensure her parents had been unharmed. "As far as I'm aware no one has even gone looking for them, although I probably wouldn't have found out at the time."

"Would you –"

Great. Now he would end up spying for her, too.

"Yes," Draco said, realising he didn't give a damn about technically betraying his own side. If he could make someone a little bit happier in this mess, it was worth it.

As long as no one found out he was passing on information to the enemy, at least. There was no embargo on killing one's own in the peace treaty.

* * *

Draco's eyes were fixed straight ahead, as if Weasley's summary of the proposed Muggle Protection Legislation was the most fascinating thing since someone invented a way to replace the Snidget in Quidditch.

"There was a raid on Park Lodge on Bayhall Road in Tunbridge Wells in September 1998. All they found was an empty house, which was placed under surveillance," he muttered without moving his lips.

It was nothing, merely the touch of her fingertips on his wrists. Her hand was gone in an instant, but he could still feel the heat of her fingers twenty minutes later, when Weasley finally wrapped it up.

Lying on his lumpy mattress that night, watching the stars, Draco tried to recall the last time someone had touched him because they had wanted to. Except for sex, he couldn't think of anyone after his mother died.

* * *

"Are – is there anything I could do for you?" Granger asked him when they were supposed to draft an offer of compensation to the goblins. Draco disapproved of the idea in principle, the goblins not exactly being hard up due to playing both sides as expertly as Severus Snape ever had, but apparently they refused to reopen Gringotts unless they got something in return.

"You can get me another one of those, it was nice." Draco had looked with suspicion at his paper cup – it seemed very flimsy to hold a hot drink – but the coffee had been the best he had tasted since Hogwarts. He had drained every last drop, to Granger's apparent amusement.

She looked at him like he was mentally deficient. He remembered her looking at Weasley the same way when he had said something particularly asinine.

Draco suddenly realised she was offering to return the favour. His mouth went dry. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. "He probably wasn't your favourite person, but I would like to find out what happened to Greg. Goyle," he added, in case she had forgotten. "When we found his body, he didn't have a head."

Granger looked grim; for a heart-stopping moment he thought she might tell him there and then. He knew who she was – why did he suddenly feel like throwing up at the thought of her wielding the sword? She must have killed dozens of people, just like him.

"I'll see what I can do," was all she said, eventually.

* * *

"I had to do a lot of favours for this," Granger warned him before gingerly placing a nondescript sack on the table before Draco. He couldn't take his eyes off it.

"Is it –"

"Yes. This way, you can at least give him a decent burial. For what it's worth, I'm told it was quick."

"Thank you," Draco mumbled. He didn't know if he was thanking her for bringing him Greg's severed head or for not having killed him herself.

Granger didn't seem to notice his hesitance. "You know our generation fucked up our lives beyond all repair when this isn't even the most gruesome thing I've ever done."

"Don't try to compete with me, Granger," he warned her.

"You can probably call me Hermione now, given that we've both bent the rules for the other a little." That was one way of putting it.

"Hermione." He tried it out.

"You don't actually have to sound like a posh twat saying it. That's optional."

"But it's so tempting."

"For you, maybe."

"Indeed, Hermione." Draco stressed all three syllables, and smirked as she squirmed.

"Yes, Malfoy. I have a first name, as strange as it may seem to you."

"Ah ah ah." He held up his finger.

"Draco. Fine. I can do this. Draco, would you like to go over the incredibly boring letter from Ragnok again?"

"Not particularly, Hermione." The letter was twenty pages long, detailing all the goblin's grievances from the last war. Ragnok had promised to write another one covering the previous wars, too.

"Me neither, but it has to be done." She spread it out on the table before them, her notes scrawled in the margin.

"You're no fun at all, Granger," he sighed, squinting to read Ragnok's squiggles. "' _This underhanded attempt to appropriate property rightfully belonging to goblins...' –_ Could he not just say 'steal', like a normal person?"

"There are at least three things wrong with what you just said there." Hermione's mouth was prim but her eyes were laughing, and Draco had to fight not to smile back. She looked younger than when he first had met her again, almost her proper age. It was hard to see beneath her mask of fearsome capability, but he suddenly realised her warm brown eyes and high cheekbones might have made her pretty in another life, where such things mattered.

"Three?" he asked, not willing to concede yet.

"Three. Need a hand?"

"If one of them is that Ragnok isn't a person, then all I can say is that I'm disappointed in you. Hermione."

"Well done, you got one. Ragnok is a dour bastard, therefore not normal, and I'm loads of fun." She stared at him, daring him to dispute her statement.

"Sure you are. What do you do to get your kicks, put Dungbombs in Madam Longbottom's tent?"

Her look of shocked dismay suggested it had never even occurred to her. "I –" She cast around for something to say. "I fly. On a broom."

"Well, I didn't think you did it like the Dark Lord." Draco remembered a bushy-haired girl with an expression of terror during flying lessons. " Hang on, I thought you hated flying at school?"

"As it turns out, flying is considerably less terrifying than a number of other things I've done since then. I quite enjoy it, and it has the added benefit of taking me far away from everyone else."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Hermione seemed a bit slow on the update today.

"You can't drop something like that and expect me to just smile and nod? When can I see this?"

"Oh. I suppose you can. Have you got a broom?"

Draco's last broom had disintegrated beneath him as a curse hit it on the rebound a few years ago. "Not anymore."

"I'll find one for you, if you promise to give it back later."

For once in his life, Draco was struck dumb. It was only after a few seconds that he realised that his hand had acted off its own accord, and sneaked across the table to grab Hermione's wrist.

The most astonishing thing was that she didn't seem to mind. After a few seconds, she simply loosened his grip gently and redirected his attention to Raknok's latest ravings.

* * *

 **'Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind' is a quote from John Donne's** _ **No man is an island.** _


	4. Crashing To The Ground

**Chapter 4**

 **Crashing To The Ground**

 **-oOo-**

"There is no way –" Draco neatly dodged a power mast, or whatever the Muggle abominations littering the countryside were called, "– you can beat me at this. No way."

"Watch me!" Hermione soared forward on a gust of wind, edging ahead. It was doubly unfair because Draco's broom was a Cleansweep which had seen better days, while Granger was riding what looked suspiciously like Potter's old Firebolt.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to ask, though. Hermione was like a different woman, laughing like he had never heard her before as she brought their race down towards the ground. They flashed past a barn and then shot across a field, the ripe wheat hitting their legs before they climbed upwards again.

"I – will – get – you!" Draco forced his antiquated broom to accelerate, gaining on her inch by inch. Their goal, the Uffingdon Horse, was in sight, and they were almost at the bottom of the hill when he finally overtook her.

Draco dipped to let his hand touch the head of the horse, the agreed endpoint of the race, and then let his speed drop as he circled back to join Hermione. They dismounted inside the head of the ancient horse drawn in chalk on a hill, thousands of years ago. Draco didn't know if it had been made by wizards or Muggles; it was magical all the same.

The full moon made the white chalk glow, and he could see the mark cast by his shadow. They were alone, except for some sheep Draco presumed were asleep.

"'Till we have built Jerusalem, in England's green and pleasant land'," Hermione mumbled, looking out over the rolling hills and sleeping fields. It sounded like a quote, but Draco didn't recognise it. He would like to ask what she meant, but he didn't want to interrupt the moment of almost perfect peace with stupid questions.

A quick sideways glance, and she took in his predicament. "It's a poem about building a better world, right here where we are," she explained quietly. "Do you think it's possible? Or have we messed everything up so badly there's no hope for us?"

"There's always hope." Draco surprised himself with his certainty, ringing out loud and clear in the silence. "There is," he repeated more quietly. "Just look at me. Think back to the gutless bonehead I was at Hogwarts, and afterwards. What were the odds I would end up here with you?"

For the first time in years, he wondered if there had been a purpose to the path that led him here. After everything he had seen, Draco had long since stopped believing anything other than blind chance and stupid choices shaping his destiny, but in the soft moonlight everything looked different.

"I'm glad you did." Hermione's hand squeezing his took Draco by surprise; he didn't even have time to get his bearings before the next shock. She turned towards him, pulling herself up on her toes by placing her other hand on his shoulder, and kissed him.

Draco was so stunned he just stood there, until she started gently pulling away. Then he suddenly realised it was actually happening, and wrapped his arms around her like both their lives depended on it. They kissed like they were the only people in the world, alone under the wide open sky with miles of grass rolling under their feet.

Even when he knew they had to go back, Draco couldn't bring himself to let her go. "If you change your mind..." It seemed too farfetched that his luck would last in the harsh light of the day, but he knew he wouldn't blame her.

" _I_ kissed _you_ , Draco Malfoy. I'm not going to regret it when I wake up in the morning." Hermione sounded just like her usual self when he was slow on the uptake and Draco started believing his luck would hold, at least until the morning.

"Goodnight then, Hermione." He kissed her again, just because he could. "Safe dreams."

"I think you mean 'sweet dreams', but I see what you mean. Same to you. Sleep well." She lingered too, and Draco was unreasonably pleased until she stretched out her hand. "The broom, please."

"Oh." He shook off some drops of dew and handed it over to Hermione. "See you tomorrow, then." Wrangling the details of war crime amnesties seemed a world away, but in less than five hours they would be debating whether attempted murder was a serious misdemeanour or an actual crime.

Hermione shrunk both brooms and let them slip into her pocket. "Meet you at the graveyard in Godric's Hollow after dinner? I have Polyjuice, so you don't need to conceal yourself." She was as brisk and efficient as if she had already stepped back into that other world, only that she clearly was intent on bringing Draco back with her.

He nodded belatedly, just before Hermione Apparated back to her camp. It wasn't until she already was gone he realised he was grinning like an idiot.

* * *

Draco couldn't decide whether it was better or worse to meet her in public every day, having to pretend they were barely on speaking terms. It was better, because simply being in Hermione's presence dissolved the knot inside his chest, and everything seemed brighter and deeper and more real, somehow (except goblin correspondence, of course).

It was worse, because he lived in fear of slipping up – one longing look intercepted, and they would be left open to anything from blackmail to court martial. It was like showing your soft underbelly every time, and yet Draco would rather have an earful of her determined voice tearing Dolohov's latest suggestion to pieces than not seeing Hermione until they could sneak a few rare hours alone.

Slowly, slowly, the future was beginning to take shape.

Hogwarts would reopen in November, mostly as a statement of intent rather than as a functional school, but lessons and students and houses were merely a few months away rather than a memory from a distant past. Most fighters would simply swear another oath and return to civilian life once the peace agreement was signed – if they insisted on making everyone pay for their crimes, there would be precious few wizards and witches left to populate their brave new world.

Stiff-necked goblins with a grievance aside, the main difficulty was Dolohov. Not the type to accept a step away from the limelight in return for other concessions, the man was convinced he would emerge as the leader of the post-war government. For several reasons, including but not limited to his inability to consider any viewpoint but his own, as well as his track record as the most vicious bastard Draco had ever come across, this was unlikely to happen.

Dolohov may have his own side cowed, but the Order weren't going to be swayed by threats of treason charges.

Draco picked a time when he was the only representative from his side present to suggest a solution.

"Give Dolohov Ireland," he said abruptly once Weasley had stopped talking about international communications. "He'll have his own kingdom, and the rest of us won't have to worry about what he gets up to."

"But we would have to give up a whole country! It's been part of Wizarding Britain since 1170!" Trust Hermione to remember the finer details of History of Magic.

"It won't be for long – he'll get himself killed soon. He's only lasted this long because fighting leaderless would be even worse than putting up with him." Draco could name at least a dozen of his fellow soldiers who would jump on the chance to get rid of Dolohov, once a messy succession battle leaving them open to Order attacks wasn't the inevitable consequence.

"I see." Weasley looked thoughtful.

* * *

The Order wasn't content to let Dolohov meet his end in his own time. A few days later, he was killed in his sleep. An unrepentant Tracey Davis was brought in front of the hastily constituted provisional leadership committee, and as she was torn to shreds Draco put the pieces together.

She must have pledged her loyalty to Dumbledore all those years ago, biding her moment until now. Tracey had been a witch of few words, with a sharp tongue when she deigned to speak. Since he first met her when they were eleven years old, Draco had simply assumed the fact she had been sorted into Slytherin had assured her loyalties were the same as his. Even during the war, it had never even occurred to him to question what he thought he knew about her.

Finding out that she had had the courage to make the right choice when he had picked the wrong one was a worse shock than it should have been, considering how many double agents Draco had faced in this wretched war.

Tracey paid for her treason in blood, but Draco never doubted she considered it worth the price.

With Dolohov removed, the last impediment to the peace process was gone. All that remained was agreeing on a candidate as Minister for Magic, and the peace agreement could be signed. The stragglers – the Merpeople, several werewolf packs and wizarding families living off the grid – could be brought into the fold later. Even the goblins had finally agreed acceptable compensation.

No one was more surprised than Draco when his name surfaced in the preliminary discussions.

No Malfoy had ever ruled the Wizarding world (officially, at least) and Draco hardly thought his past sufficient evidence he was fit to lead a Quidditch team, never mind being Minister for Magic.

Hermione was convinced he was the best candidate, however. Mountains had been moved for less.

It became clear that own his side would be vastly happier with one of their own in charge, and as Hermione vouched for him the Order was willing to concede.

Within in week, both sides seemed to have accepted his appointment as a matter of course, and all that remained was to hash out the distribution of the posts beneath him.

The future Draco and Hermione had been waiting for was almost there.

Draco seemed to be able to taste it in the air that morning, as he made his way from the Apparition spot at Hogwarts to the fortress. The sky was a clear blue dome above him, and the wind had a bite to it. It was autumn weather, heralding the start of something new. Draco whistled as he walked, his boots crunching red and orange and brown leaves beneath the sturdy soles.

Afterwards he walked the same way in his dreams, over and over again, and it would always be the same: the blue sky, the sun playing hide and seek amidst the trees, and a sense of panic as he approached the table set up in the open air.

This first time, there was no panic. Draco said a cheerful "Good morning" to Bill Weasley and Flitwick, and looked around for Pucey who was probably still in bed. There were reams of blueprints on the table. Draco leafed through them as he waited, tossing most of them aside. They were supposed to agree on what do to with Snape's grave, which had been desecrated and built up again several times depending on who had held the position by the lake.

Draco wondered when Pucey was going to grace them with his presence, just as a silvery jaguar leapt up on the table. Even in the bright sunlight it shone.

"Come quick! Giant on the rampage, Granger and Bell are down!" it panted with a woman's voice Draco didn't recognise.

"Excuse me," Bill Weasley said, nodding to Flitwick and Draco and pulling his wand out to follow the unknown Patronus. "They were tackling a rogue werewolf pack this morning," he explained, his laconic voice at odds with the grim cast of his jaw and his economic movements preparing for battle.

"Wait! Please –" Draco didn't know what to say, but the sheer panic in his voice seemed to be enough to convince Weasley. Afterwards, he realised that Hermione must have told the Weasley brothers about them. They were the closest thing to a family she had left.

"Fine. Hang on tight, then." Weasley put his arm around Draco's waist, and together they spun into nothingness, and then onto the scene of another bloodbath. Draco had seen so many, he barely flinched.

More reinforcements were Apparating in, and they made quick work of securing the area. Draco tore through the path of destruction left by the giant like he couldn't breathe until he found Hermione. Once he spotted her boots sticking out under a log, all his frantic energy was channeled into getting her out. In a burst of spontaneous magic the log was thrown some twenty paces, and he looked straight into Hermione's eyes.

Something died inside him then, something that couldn't be repaired.

Draco had seen enough of death and the dying to know Hermione was beyond salvation, beyond anything that could be done for her at this side of the Veil.

"Don't look so glum," she told him in between wheezing breaths. "At least I know the war will be ending, whether I'm there or not. You can still do all the things we talked about."

"Except the most important one, Granger." Draco didn't care he was crying, not even when he was surrounded by the enemy. "What's the point, when you won't be there?"

She looked up at him, more composed that he was despite being the one who was dying. "Those coming after us won't have to waste their lives dealing with the same shite as we have, that's the point. You'll make sure of that. Promise me, Draco."

There were so many other things he would have liked to promise her instead, but he obeyed. "I swear, Granger."

"Good." She smiled, but she was deathly pale. They both knew she wouldn't last much longer.

"Let me –" Draco didn't know how to make her more comfortable, but as always Hermione seemed to know what to do. She patted the ground next to her and he laid down, taking her hand and placing it gently over his heart. They lay there side by side, looking up at the bright blue October sky promising a future Hermione never would see, until her hand grew cold and Draco couldn't pretend she was still there with him any longer.


	5. Castles of Sand

**Chapter 5**

 **Castles Of Sand**

 **-oOo-**

The peace continued without Hermione – Merlin knew all of them were used to people dying around them. Draco signed the final peace treaty with a flourish, even pretending to smile for the cameras, because the only thing worse than her dying would be if it had been in vain.

Then, he suddenly ran out of steam.

Hermione was gone. She had left him alone, and there was nothing he could do about it. Draco was in charge of the whole Wizarding world and he could do anything he wanted: reopen Hogwarts as his own private residence, erect a giant statue of his mother in the centre of Godric's Hollow, declare war on France – and there was nothing he wanted to do at all, other than make Granger not be dead.

This was her bloody future; the least she could have done was to be around to see it happen.

Draco spent his first day as the first undisputed leader of the Wizarding world since Fudge had lost the plot rearranging his quills. A Silencing Charm took care of the persistent knocking on the door, and he had almost forgotten where he was until Percy Weasley blasted his way in.

"Can't you do that somewhere else? I'm busy." Draco had managed to put three quills on top of each other with very little help from his wand, but now they had all fallen down on his handsome mahogany desk.

It had a green cover. Draco liked green.

"I can see that. Meanwhile, there is the minor matter of a number of foreign ambassadors waiting to present their credentials. Shall I ask them to come back later? The Italian is getting rather testy – he's transformed Pucey's briefcase into a she-wolf with cubs, and she's got the Bulgarian and Norwegian ambassadors backed into a corner."

"Fine. Bring them in, then." It wasn't like Draco cared either way.

* * *

"Buck up, Minister. You're hardly the first person to have lost someone you love." Augusta Longbottom curled her lip in distaste. "She saw something in you, Merlin knows what, so you had better dig deep and find it. You simply cannot afford to drop the Bludger right now." The term sat awkwardly on her tongue, but Draco supposed they must have had Qudditch back in the Dark Ages, too.

"I didn't love her," he clarified even though he had planned to maintain a dignified silence. Madam Longbottom had that effect on people.

"Of course you didn't. Hermione Granger was just a friend of yours."

He nodded, pleased that she finally understood.

"Then there is no reason why you can't approve this list of former Ministry employees killed in action that are now entitled to a pension, is there?" She shoved the list under his nose and he tiredly waved his wand at it. 'Draco Lucius Malfoy' briefly glowed golden, before the letters sank into the parchment and dulled.

"Thank you, Minister. Now, may I draw your attention to this order to reform the Auror Office..."

* * *

Once she had left, it took Draco half an hour to emerge from his unnatural stupor. Then, he sat up straight in his chair for the first time since he had become Minister. If they thought they could bully him into being a figurehead for the Order, they had another think coming.

A small voice at the back of his head that sounded remarkably like Hermione's attempted to tell him they were only trying to run the country, but Draco ignored it. Granger was dead – she had talked a lot, and probably he had listened to her when he shouldn't have, but at least he could make up for it now.

It was time he started to make his own mark on the world.

* * *

The first Malfoy Minister for Magic lasted less than seventy days in office, barely beating Basil Flack who had the shortest ever term. In hindsight, Draco should probably not have appointed the reformed Death Eaters as 'Protectors of the Realm'. Pointing out that no one else in the country had as much experience with the Dark Arts hadn't helped his case.

Relocating Hogwarts to make the castle his official residence had also proved surprisingly controversial. One would think people would understand that he needed suitable surroundings to lend gravitas to his office; the French President of Magic would hardly run his Ministry out of the Leaky Cauldron.

In a rare show of unity, most of the Wizarding world rose up against him. Even the goblins joined in – just because Draco had introduced a levy on minting Galleons to finance the building works at Hogwarts.

Not even the Death Eaters remained loyal. One look at the advancing lynch mob and they fled. So much for pure-blood loyalty – the country really had gone to the dogs.

* * *

They put him in a cell in an old Muggle police station, to hide him until they could put on a proper trial. Apparently something called 'due process' was very important, whatever it was. Draco couldn't muster enough energy to care.

It was rather restful there, much better than his old office where people bothered him all the time.

"Minister, the Head of the Auror Office has resigned in disgust."

"Mrs Longbottom says she will not take no for an answer."

"Minister, the goblins has frozen all Ministry assets!"

No one seemed to be able to think for themselves anymore; he wondered what they would do without him. Draco had done his bit for his country, though – he wouldn't go back, even if they begged him.

* * *

While Weasley bleated on about 'clemency' and 'a rare opportunity to set new standards for our community', Draco wondered who had died and made him Chief Warlock.

The courtroom had been constructed specifically for the purpose of his trial. He didn't think they had made a very good job of it – there wasn't even room for all the spectators. Most of what remained of the Wizarding world had squeezed in, and Draco entertained himself counting how many of them he had either faced in combat or fought beside.

Penelope Clearwater – he hadn't come across her for years. She had saved his neck that time in Berwick-upon-Tweed, he remembered, before she changed sides.

Maybe it would be more fun to count how many of them both applied to.

Draco had counted to thirty-two, excluding known double-agents like Hannah Abbott, before Weasley arrived at the important bit.

"The defendant is sentenced to serve the community for the rest of his natural life..."

There was a roar among the crowd, who had expected something quite different if the shouts of "Death to the bastard!" was anything to go by.

"Order! I will have order!" Weasley's shouts were drowned out, and the Hit Wizards surrounding Draco quickly bundled him out through a small door previously hidden from view, just as projectiles and curses started whizzing past his head. He barely had time to wave to his former subjects before he disappeared.

* * *

Draco knew they still had people watching him; he wasn't a complete idiot. Most of the time, he could pretend they weren't there, though – after the first year he barely ever saw them.

On sunny days, he sometimes stopped where Flourish & Blotts used to be. A gleaming new building housing the reformed Ministry had sprung up there instead. It had been magically extended to fit all the departments in, so the outside was bulging a bit.

There was a small plaque on the wall on the Gringotts side, mostly unnoticed by the steady stream of traffic passing through the front doors.

 _Hermione Jean Granger_

 _1979 – 2012_

 _Though lovers be lost love shall not;_

 _And death shall have no dominion_

 _This plaque was unveiled on the 19_ _th_ _of September 2014 by Percy Weasley, Minister for Magic,_

 _in recognition of her faithful service to the Wizarding world and beyond._

Draco rested on his broom beneath it, reading the inscription for the umpteenth time. The quote was from a Muggle poem – Weasley had insisted on reading out the full thing at the ceremony. Later, he had pressed a copy of it into Draco's unwilling hand.

It was still in his pocket, and although it was crumbled up and smudged he could still make out the words. It didn't make much sense to Draco – you could tell it hadn't been written by a wizard. No one, not even Potter, had defeated death in the end.

Yet, when he turned around to watch the crowd weaving up and down Diagon Alley – office workers out for lunch; schoolchildren clutching lists with Hogwarts supplies; self-important business people in nicely cut robes, swishing past in a hurry; house-elves clad in smart livery on an errand for their master – he wondered if Hermione would have thought.

She might be dead, but most of the things she had fought for had finally happened.

Draco told himself not to be an idiot and continued sweeping, blinking several times to get rid of the tears in his eyes as he bent down towards the cloud of dust rising from his broom. One cobblestone, two cobblestones, three, four, five – he was all the way to Ollivander's before he looked up again, and then his head was empty of anything but sweeping.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **The poem referred to at the end is _And death shall have no dominion_ by Dylan Thomas.**


End file.
